


Blood is beautiful

by BellatrixStorm



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 08:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18339536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellatrixStorm/pseuds/BellatrixStorm
Summary: Warning: self-harm related triggers ahead.





	Blood is beautiful

Addictions are sly things. You know, you know they're going to get you all tangled up in their meticulous nets the very moment you'd come too close. And yet you still think you'll be tough enough, after all, you're way more intelligent, more resistant than everyone else whose tried… But only about those "casual" addictions. Alcohol. Drugs. There are others. You might not even realize things like that can lead to addiction. You think those infatuated people are insane. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, you still tried. Worst. Decision…

And now you catch yourself considering ways to stay alone if even for ten minutes, just enough to get another hit. Because others don't understand, now everyone else thinks you insane. But in the dormitory, there is one of your classmates, another one in showers and the common room is obviously no option, there's always someone lurking there even if it looks entirely empty. Not to mention the fact that walls quite literally had eyes in this godforsaken castle.

You decide to get outside. There are plenty of places to disappear in, the Forbidden forest being especially tempting. Yes, there will also be more than enough observers, the forest doesn't differ from the castle on that one, except they won't care at all. There's darker stuff going on all over the place with no one so much as giving a second thought about any of it.

You give a sneaky look towards your classmate, who's sitting on her bed and not paying any attention to anything other than newest edition of some witch glamour magazine, and, after deciding your motions will go unnoticed, gather those few very necessary little tools and slip them into the pocket. And then you go. Through the castle, down countless steps, out the door and, after several minutes of a brisk walking, into the forest. Despite the drizzling rain and merciless wind. Dealing with those is heavily preferred over not getting the hit.

You're only familiar with the bigger trails but there is a possibility, however small, that someone else might be using those as well, even in this damp weather, so you take a risk and stray from them, choosing less significant paths instead. Then even more minuscule ones. Until finally you're following one that's more of an illusion than an actual path. It's highly unlikely that someone would want to break through all the bushes and trees you left behind, but just in case…

So you step off the last miserable excuse of a path and wander a little deeper into the overgrown forest. Look around. You could only be noticed if anyone would know what and where to look for. Still, better be cautious. So you take off your robe, throw it on the unpleasantly wet forest floor and sit down. There's no way anyone could see you now. Finally.

The white uniform shirt you wore below the robe becomes moist in a matter of seconds. But you don't care. Let it rain.

You roll up the sleeve on your left arm, then pull the knife out of the pocket of your robe, hold your breath for a moment and cut. And again. Deep. Cuts that opens almost a quarter inch wide are white for a moment before the blood starts flowing in and down the arm. You can almost physically feel the positivity crawling out of the pit it had fallen and gotten lost in just from watching the blood. So you keep cutting.

It hurts. Very, very much. But it's a good feeling. When you roll the sleeve back down, the arm, covered in countless new cuts, weirdly seems a little heavier than before. The cloth momentarily sticks to the skin and blossoms in red flowers, but it doesn't worry you. It's nice to think about the moment when you'll have to tear the shirt from the cuts, generating another wave of pain. You smile.

A drop of blood slowly, unbearably slowly runs down the back of your hand leaving a red stain behind and falls on the ground together with numerous raindrops.

Blood is beautiful.


End file.
